With the point of their skates, on the ice, in English, in Italics, in Gothic, they write the name of Skobelef. Lamps suspended to the arches reproduce the glorious word. The sound of the clarions and fifes playing the triumphal march is already heard.
The moment has come!
The leader of the orchestra lowers his baton.
One, two, three!
And as though the whole army, the whole people had been stopped spellbound at this signal, the cannon thundered, the orchestra bellowed, the fireworks, are let off, the bells ring, and high above all the clamour the national hymn rises for the last time—
BOJÉ TSARA KRANI.
Although Buffalo Bill’s company has not appeared at the Hippodrome, this seems to be a fitting place in which to chronicle the magnificent equestrian spectacle with which they have delighted the Parisians during the Exhibition.
The innumerable readers of Cooper’s American novels have seen the prairie of the Sioux transported, with its actors and its decorative accessories, to the Porte Maillot. All were there: the Red Skins—genuine Red Skins, the mustangs, [p206] buffaloes, cowboys, vaqueros, waggons, tents, bows, arrows, rifles, dogs, squaws, and papooses.
